Mark handed me the menu with a nonchalant smile. “Order whatever you like, dear,” he said, though his eyes betrayed a different message. I glanced at the menu, filled with exquisite dishes and exorbitant prices, my mouth watering at the descriptions.
“I think I’ll have the lobster bisque to start, and then the filet mignon,” I said, excitement bubbling within me.
Mark’s smile tightened. “Actually, how about you start with a house salad? Keep it light. You’re trying to lose weight, right? Maybe then you’ll wear that red dress I love next time we come here.”
His words were like a slap. I looked around, feeling a hot flush of embarrassment. Was this his idea of a joke? But the steely glint in his eyes told me he was serious.
“Mark, it’s our anniversary,” I protested softly. “I thought—”
“You thought wrong,” he interrupted, waving over the waiter. “My wife will have the house salad, and I’ll take the Chateaubriand, medium rare. And a bottle of your best red.”
The waiter hesitated, looking at me sympathetically. “Very well, sir.”
I swallowed my anger, the salad before me a pitiful mound of greens. Mark savored every bite of his lavish meal, making a show of how tender the steak was, and how rich the sauce was. The wine flowed freely—at least for him. I sipped my water, each moment of the meal stretching into an eternity.
Mark’s controlling actions during dinner were a bitter pill to swallow. He enjoyed his steak, commenting on every delicious bite, while I picked at my salad.
I tried to keep my cool, but my anger simmered beneath the surface. He ordered a decadent chocolate soufflé for dessert and, without even looking at me, said, “She’s done.”
I felt humiliated. Here I was, on our anniversary, being treated like an afterthought. As he savored his dessert, I decided I wouldn’t let this slide. I would make sure he remembered this anniversary for all the wrong reasons. I smiled to myself, a plan forming in my mind.
